Snap
by domina tempore
Summary: It was generally accepted fact that one needed to survive something horrible and traumatic in order to Snap. Some can barely remember. Others try to forget. (or, how the Leverage team come into their powers) Potential trigger warning, canonical character death.
1. Parker - Mistborn

**Leverage/Mistborn Trilogy Fusion: The Allomancy Jobs**

Title: Snap ( _Part 1/5: Parker - Mistborn)_

 _Disclaimer: Leverage, Mistborn, etc, belong to their respective owners; I'm just borrowing. No copyright infringement intended!_

 _Author's Notes: The blame for this rests entirely on a dear friend of mine, who insisted that I pick up Brandon Sanderson, while at the same time giving into my insistence that she pick up Leverage. Conversations about the two became a bit...muddled, and the hypothetical question was brought up of what sort of allomancy each Leverage team member would use._

 _This happened._

 _The setting is modern day, bringing the powers into the Leverage world instead of the team into the Mistborn books because I am not that brave (nor confident enough to play with Sanderson's character's directly). A basic understanding of the powers system in the series is suggested, but not strictly necessary. Throw in a dash of "suspension of disbelief" and you're good to go._

 **ovo**

 _"Allomancers have the ability to "burn" (or use) metals, in order to fuel a variety of physical and mental enhancements and abilities."_

Parker Snapped when she was eight years old.

Everybody said that in order to Snap you had to have survived something deeply traumatic, but Parker didn't remember anything particularly awful about the day. Just the death of her brother.

Okay, so maybe her Snapping wasn't as random as she chose to believe.

Up until then, she remembered being a normal kid. Sort of. If the life of a foster kid could be considered _normal_. She and her brother had bounced around in the system _together_ , which was more than could be said for most kids in their situation who were actually blood-related. They had no family but each other, and for a while it was okay.

It was enough.

It was too good to last forever.

He was older by about three months, but Parker was braver. She was the one who made decisions for them, created elaborate games for them to play. She was the first to climb into trees and out of windows and jump in the swimming hole. She was the one who found the discarded bike in a trash heap and learned how to ride it.

She taught her brother immediately, because she liked to share with him, wanted to do something special for him. At first, it worked beautifully.

Then wheels.

She hadn't meant to kill him.

A man got out of the car, panicking. Her foster mom rushed out of the house and started yelling at him, and Parker, and the neighbors, and her foster son who was bleeding on the ground. (Years later, Parker would understand that she yelled because she was scared, but at eight years old all she knew was that the woman was angry and it was her fault.) A neighbor ran inside to call the police, the hospital, whoever it was who responded to accidents like that.

Parker existed in the center of the maelstrom, on her knees and desperately shaking her non-responsive brother. His dusty lips still smiled from the triumph of mastering the two-wheeler. He didn't wake up.

He was dead.

She'd never seen death before.

Suddenly, Parker felt like she was choking, suffocating, and she released him like he was something poisonous. Like death was catching. Her mind was filled with a single, desperate thought of _away_.

Something burned in her belly. Before she understood what was happening, she catapulted over the heads of angry foster mothers and curious neighbors and EMT's, towards a metal-wrapped chimney across the street. At first, she was so surprised she nearly fell off the roof. But she caught herself, wrapping her small arms around the rough bricks and clinging so tight they scraped her skin.

For three days she sat on that roof. No one could convince her it was okay; not her foster parents, not the social worker, not the various policemen and firemen who tried to coax her down. When one of them fell off the roof as she glared at him - belly still burning - they stopped trying to come near her.

 _Itsyourfault_ , her tiny heart beat out at a breakneck speed. _Hesdeadhesdeadhesdeaditsyourfault..._

When she heard them talking about what to do with her - "We could try for an air lift, but I'm concerned she might jump off the roof" - she knew it was time to go.

 _Hesdeadhesdeadhesdeadmyfaultimsosorry..._

When she focused on the burning inside her, she felt a tug towards another chimney across the street. She let it take her, flying over the dark, misty street and landing on the roof with a painful thump. Guilt ate her up. _Imsorryimsorryimsorry_. Her brother had liked this family, sort of. More than the last one, at least. He had hoped they could stay. _I'm so sorry_.

Parker ran, flying across rooftops through the night, her _sorry_ mantra thrumming through her veins.


	2. Nate - Rioter

**Chapter 2: Nate - Rioter**

 _Author's Notes: The only logical place for Nate to Snap (he's a Rioter, he burns Zinc, and can inflame people's emotions. People who only have one metal are called Mistings). What is a harder thing to survive than this?_

 _(as a point of interest, Maggie is a Misting also; she burns Tin, and it enhances your senses, which works out well for her being an authenticator of valuable antiquities. I doing know if I'm going to write her Snapping or not, but in this universe she has had the ability for years, since before she married Nate.)_

 **ovo**

It was all the frantic notes of doctors and the steady beep of a flatline.

Nate watched in horror as tense hands charged up medical equipment, pressing metal plates against the pale, skinny chest of his son - his _son_! - trying and trying to shock the life back into him. The monitors remained static. The long note didn't change.

Until then Nate had watched silently, breath choked off and held hostage as he waited. Daring to hope. The scream that ripped out of his throat surprised even him, except it really didn't. Rules and protocols be damned, that was his _son_ lying on that bed! He burst through the door, pushing aside doctors and nurses and equipment - all so useless - and gathering the small, limp body in his arms. He screamed again.

And again.

And again.

Something inside him Snapped. He felt it, the sudden sharp awareness that opened in his gut like a knife wound. Without even pausing to think what that meant - as if there was a conscious thought left in him other than _hesdeadhesdeadhesdead_ \- he focused on the feelings of rage and suffering and shouted wordlessly in his son's dead ear. Around him, he was vaguely aware of the hospital staff. They yelled and cried in turn as if they were all just manifestations of the agony he endured.

It took great effort and the extinguishing of the burn in his belly for the cold body to be pried out of his arms. More time was required to convince him to move, steer him out into the equally lifeless waiting room. Maggie was still there - he'd almost forgotten about that in his despair - tears drying on her face and her body folded into a chair that made her look unnaturally small. There was a pained set to her jaw, and blood in her ears. Nate felt a small stab of guilt about that; she must have had her Tin on. With such heightened senses his screaming would have hurt her.

The medical staff withdrew, perhaps uncertain how to handle these broken people who had just lost their son. Maggie straightened and stood to meet Nate, her natural instincts still to mother, to comfort in spite of her own grief. Under other circumstances, maybe he could have accepted it.

 _She doesn't know_ , Nate thought, taking a step back. A small thing, but Maggie read it for what it was (she was good at that). The hurt in her eyes was physically painful to see. _She doesn't know how badly I tried, that I almost saved him._ But he hadn't saved anybody. He'd failed.

"I think...you...something happened to you," Maggie said numbly after a few moments of staring and heavy breaths. It was such a poor excuse for conversation, but what could either of them say? Their son was dead, and nothing in the world could be okay now. "I felt it. You were Rioting these rooms so hard…" Her voice caught in her throat, and she wrapped her arms around herself when he made no move towards her. "I was ready to punch the next person who walked through that door."

Nate nodded slowly. One hand scrubbed at his face, through his hair. "I...yeah. Something happened. Inside me." _I died_ , he thought, but didn't say it out loud. He had no right to blame Maggie for this, couldn't project his self-loathing onto his wife.

This wasn't her fault.

It was his.

"Nate…" Maggie stepped towards him again, and again he retreated.

 _You don't deserve her comfort_ , he thought angrily. Guilt flared in his belly. "I need some air," he mumbled, pushing past her into the hallway. Leaving his wife standing shocked in her lonely embrace. _Your fault_ , his steps and ragged breath whispered as he stumbled through the halls. _Your fault that Sam is dead._


	3. Sophie - Soother

**Chapter 3: Sophie - Soother __**

 _Author's Note: Explanations at the end of the chapter for the powers etc._  
 _It would be super lovely by the way if someone besides me actually liked both series; if you're out there lets geek out about the things! ;)_

 **ovo**

"So, what happened to you? You know…" A vague, all-encompassing hand gesture, and a sigh. "...you know?"

Sophie sighed. In some ways, it was a relief that Tara had asked the question. It had to come up eventually, of course - when you'd just saved a young woman's life through the legendary power of your Soothing, there was bound to be curiosity. Tara seemed bright, and comfortable with allomancy,at least until she'd almost been killed by several exciteable gunmen. It was natural that under the circumstances, she would want to know more. But in this day and age, with allomancers on the outs and bulk metals at a premium, no one wanted to be the first to bring it up. Even association was a dangerous business.

The unspoken part of the question, of course, was "how did you Snap?" It was a difficult one. Oh, she knew exactly how Sophie Devereaux had Snapped, alright. Seventeen and ambitious, she had been pilfering the palace of a foolish Prince when she'd been caught and forced to jump out a third story window to escape. She'd limped out on a broken leg, and it took her three days to find a doctor who would treat her.

It was a good story, one that got her a lot of attention and cheering at the right parties. It was the sort of thing the younger generations ate up.

Pity Sophie was only an alias.

Annie Kroy had been even younger for her ordeal. Thirteen was not a good age to be knifed in the slums, but Snapping in such an environment had its advantages. By the time the wound had healed, the power of her voice _owned_ those same slums.

But Annie was as much a work of fiction as Sophie Devereaux.

Charlotte Prentiss, Duchess of Hanover, had Snapped when her dear William had died. He had been planning to propose, she knew, and his death hit hard. The Duchess very seriously contemplated suicide before dropping that alias and shedding her like an extra skin she no longer needed. Charlotte was just a name, after all.

Stories and stories and stories.

That was all her life would come to in the end.

Any one of those stories or a dozen others would have been sufficient to feed to Tara. She was a hard young woman and a bloody talented grifter, but she was no allomancer. A few words and a subtle Push would be all Sophie would need to sell the story. They would probably never meet again; what crew needed two female grifters, especially if one of them was already a Soother? But Sophie thought she deserved better than that. If she was to be honest (and she very rarely was), she liked Tara. Also, she liked to fancy herself as something of a role model to younger grifters (there was no more than three years difference between her and Tara).

Besides, it always paid to have a favor waiting in the wings.

In the end, Sophie did something that she hadn't done in a long time. It was probably record-breaking.

She told the truth.

"I don't remember," she admitted, curious at how hard it was to say such simple words. "I know that I was very young - people used to say that I was born Soothing - but I don't remember a conscious shift. Just...darkness. Fear." She shrugged and gave a delicate shudder. She had never been able to turn off her theatrics, in spite of her Soothing. "It's all a bit of a blur, really. In some ways I guess I should be grateful for that; it means I get to tell the best stories."

"So I've heard."

"What about you?" Sophie asked, regarding the woman curiously. She Soothed just a little harder to take away caution, make her more relaxed. Nothing. _Interesting_. That wasn't what she'd been expecting at all. "I've never heard of you before today, so you're either painfully new to the game - which I doubt - or you are very, very good." She tried to Soothe her again, the most subtle of touches. Nothing.

Pieces clicked into place, rumors and fireside tales. "Ah." So she was indeed very, very good then. "What's your story?"

Tara's face darkened. "I'd rather not talk about it."

Sophie could respect that. If Tara was what Sophie now suspected, her life had been no easier than that of an allomancer. In fact, she had probably had it quite a bit worse. Kandra had been abused for centuries, after all. (Charlotte Prentiss had made something of a study on the creatures long ago.) They didn't go around revealing themselves to just anybody. Their services were bloody expensive and hard to procure.

Sophie Devereaux was nothing if not a talented gambler. "That unfortunate man whose bodyguards I convinced to...well, you were there. Was he, oh how can I put it delicately?"

"You can't, but go on." Tara leaned back and forced her body to relax. Her eyes were vaguely defiant, but interested. She wouldn't trust easily. But that didn't mean they couldn't come to a mutually agreeable arrangement.

 _Probably a Third_ , Sophie thought with satisfaction. That was good. Thirds were usually more willing to bend the rules than the other generations. "Very well then, darling. Does that man's death happen to make you available for Contract?"

 **ovo**

 _Note:_ _Sophie is a Soother, she burns brass and her power is basically the opposite of Nate's; where he inflames a desired emotion, she can smooth away an undesirable one (and thereby leave people with only the emotions which are useful to her).  
_

 _Tara is a Third-Generation Kandra, shape-shifters who change their form by ingesting a dead body and using its bones. They are unaffected by allomancy. In order to escape persecution/slavery, they hold Contracts, usually impersonating people or doing spy work. They are forbidden from killing humans._


	4. Hardison - Smoker

**Chapter 4: Hardison - Smoker**

 _Author's Note: I thought that Hardison's was going to be way more difficult than it turned out to me. It just sort of flowed. I love Nana._

 _Hardison burns Copper, which hides people using allomancy from anyone who might normally be able to sense that. Nana has Bronze, which lets one sense people using allomancy._

 **ovo**

 _The wrong place at the wrong time._

It was the story of Alec's life. It would probably end up on his gravestone sooner rather than later. Shoot, he might as well have it printed up on a damn t-shirt.

Everything had started in the foster system. He learned later that a lot of stories started that way. People were corrupt or greedy or disinterested, and had no idea what to do with a smart-mouthed black kid even if most of the problems surrounding him _weren't_ his fault. He hadn't even been awake when the fire started at the group home. The kid had barely made it out alive, but that didn't mean there was anyone willing to take him on. They bounced him from home to home, trying to see where he would stick.

Nobody wanted to take responsibility for him.

Until Nana.

Whatever else he had to say about the system, Alec would maintain that there was one good thing to come out of it, and that was his Nana. Sure, she may not have been the most refined, and she wasn't a fashion model by any stretch; but as far as he was concerned she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

Nana had a reputation for taking on hard-to-manage kids. She just happened to be down at the social worker's office one day, yelling about how they'd offended one of her brood, when Alec was dropped off by yet another overwhelmed would-be parent. When she saw him come in, head hanging, sneakers scuffing the faded linoleum tiles, she had decided then and there that she had to take care of him. The kid belonged in her family.

That was how she told the story, anyways.

It was the right place at the right time.

Alec liked Nana. Her kids were a little wild, granted, and she was strict; but she _loved_ them. It was markedly different than his previous living arrangements. The woman had a real knack for making misfit kids feel like they belonged.

It was also Nana who realized that he had a gift. In the years to come it would remain one of his more vivid memories of her; Nana sitting him down in the kitchen while the other kids watched tv or played outside. She held him in place with her eyes and explained something to him called _allomancy_. It had to do with metal, she said. Certain people could use them to get power for a short while. Some people had just one and others had them all, and the one that Nana could use was Bronze. "It helps me recognize other people who have gifts," she explained. "Your metal is Copper, I can feel it in you. When you use it, you can hide anyone around you who is using allomancy, and no one will ever know."

It figured that Alex couldn't have any of the _interesting_ ones.

Copper _was_ useful, however. When one was fortunate enough to become friends with other mischievous youngsters (who also happened to use this allomancy thing - Nana called them "the Mistings"), one was able to be involved in some of the most entertaining and creative pranks ever to be pulled. If one burned Copper to hide one's friends involvement, one generally didn't get caught.

Wrong place, right time.

Mischief led to more mischief, which led to slightly less-than-advisable-under-things-like-the-law extracurricular activities. Alec found out that in the wider world it paid to have Copper, and learned to call himself a Smoker. Thieving crews paid top dollar for his services if they needed their Soothers protected. Very quickly, that skinny, smart-mouthed kid had a service that was in high demand.

At first he thought it was easy money.

Of course, his new-found career meant that he was on the run from the police, the FBI, and dozens of angry businessmen who didn't appreciate being swindled. Thieving was good for his bank account, bad for reputation.

The wrong place at the wrong time.


	5. Eliot - Thug

**Eliot - Thug**

 _Author's Note:_ _Eliot is a Thug; he has Pewter, which basically makes you really strong when you burn it, which I thought fit him quite well. It was more difficult for me to write than most of these._

 _(as a note to interested parties, I purposefully wrote this one to show Eliot actually being given metals, prior to his Snapping. If you look closely.)_

 **ovo**

Running.

Eliot ran for a long time, farther than he'd ever run before. He knew, in an abstract sort of way, that he should be tired. Exhausted. Between working on the farm and being the star quarterback for his high school, Eliot had an intimate knowledge of the limits of his body. This far surpassed them.

He was barely out of breath.

As he ran, he tried to process the last few hours in his head.

He'd met with the recruiter for the third time in as many weeks. It was what he wanted. He just hadn't gotten up the courage to sign the papers yet. They'd put him through his paces again because he asked, trying to get a feel of what to expect at the end of the road. (He thought they agreed because they were trying to convince him based on his physical merits.) When he was done, they provided him with a bottle of metallic-tasting water and a power bar. They seemed disappointed when he still hedged and hesitated. Eliot was conflicted.

It was what he wanted.

He had his family to consider.

That night, he'd brought the idea up to his parents. Ideally, it was to have been a calm, rational discussion of the available facts. An adult discussion (he was turning eighteen in a week). What had happened was something less than ideal.

His father was furious. Never mind that he hadn't agreed, hadn't signed anything binding behind the family's back. The very thought that he'd _considered_ leaving was far more than his father could understand.

"We are your _family_ , Eliot! Ain't nothing you need that you can't get right here."

"It's not about needing anything; I want to serve my country!"

"Well you can serve it from here, where you belong. Hell if I'm gonna let them steal my boy and use him for target practice!"

There was more of the same. Eliot did his best to argue his case, and his father got angrier and angrier. It was only a matter of time until he lost control. It was only for a second, but that was all that was necessary.

He slapped Eliot across the face.

It was the first and only time Eliot had seen his father raise a hand on _anyone_. The contact shocked him into stillness, anger and hurt flaring in his belly. He clenched his fists.

Eliot struck back.

It wasn't meant to be a hard blow - he hadn't even used that much force - but it sent his father across the room. His mother screamed. Eliot stared in horror at his hands. _You did that._ Guilt crushed him. _You hurt your own father._

He ran.

Eliot kept running until he reached the recruiter's office, and it was a good thing he arrived when he did because his strength gave out as he arrived. Stumbling, using nearly all of his effort to stay upright, he made it through the door. "I'm in," he gasped to the surprised men who stood up as he arrived. "Sign me up."

The men exchanged a glance and brought him papers and a pen and a glass of the metallic-tasting water. His fatigue lessened after a few sips, a dull fire burning in the pit of his belly. With a barely steady hand, Eliot signed away the rights to his life for what he thought was four years but would end up being closer to lifetimes. The shaking had nothing to do with his exhaustion.

 _It's to protect your family_ , he insisted, silencing the part of him that felt guilty for leaving. _You'll only hurt them if you stay._

 **ovo**

Note:

 _And so we come to the end of the beginning! Hopefully my life will stay at least a little bit sane, and I can get more work done in this universe in the near future, because I have thoroughly enjoyed it. Thank you for reading. Until next time...Allonsy!_


End file.
